


Don't cross the line, you don't get by

by Honeymull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For pass_shoot_porn, prompt: "Old habits die hard".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't cross the line, you don't get by

**Author's Note:**

> (Warnings: Initially hesitating participation in sexual activities by someone in an established relationship with the other participant. Could be construed as dub-con, erring on the side of caution to warn, etc.)

The restaurant is nice, all sharp lines and crisp linens, the wait staff dapper and attentive. Brad thinks it's just this side of too-nice, a little more formal than he'd usually spring for.

The dimmed-down lighting gets on his nerves and he doesn't know why.

Vinny had laughed a little when he followed Brad through the door. “Jeez, it's just dinner, Richie. I've been to New York before; you don't need to impress me.”

Brad had brushed it off, rolled his eyes, but - he taps the toe of his shoe against the floor silently now, a compulsive motion, and focuses back on the conversation with an effort.

“-that time when Torts threw the water bottle at me at practice.” Vinny grins a little around shoveling a bite of steak in his mouth.

“You deserved that water bottle,” Brad puts it absently, watching Vinny cut another piece. His fingers are long, folded neatly around the knife. Brad blinks away the next second, offers up his own amused smile. “You deserved him _decking_ you for mouthing off like that. I'll never know how he didn't kill you sometimes.”

“Uh, too much talent?” Vinny manages around a mouthful of half-chewed meat.

A passing waiter barely reacts, but Brad has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “That's nice, Vinny.” He looks around to see who he can signal for the check. “Real sexy. All those magazines know you act like this in public?”

Vinny swallows, thankfully, and doesn't answer for a second. His eyes narrow a little as he regards Brad, and Brad's foot starts tapping again. Nervous. “What, those sexiest athlete lists? You still read those, Richie?”

“Oh, come on, I don't _read_ them-”

“Used to.”

“That doesn't...count.”

There's an elderly couple across from him being seated, and Brad trains his attention on them. The lady brushes her fingers across the gentleman's as they sit, then laughs surprisingly loud at something their waitress says.

When he returns his focus, Vinny's watching him, half a smirk on his face as he wipes the last of the steak sauce off his fingers.

“It doesn't _count_ ,” Brad reiterates, busying himself with the check that arrives, fending off Vinny's half-assed grab for it and sliding in his own card.

Once the waiter leaves, Vinny leans forward. “Why the hell wouldn't it count? Just 'cause we were fucking around back then?” There's a glint in his eyes Brad doesn't like. “What, you don't think I remember you buying that shit? Like little souvenirs.”

Brad goes still, then forces himself to resume folding his napkin. Arranges his utensils across his plate. “We're not talking about this.” He sees Vinny start to open that stupid mouth of his and cuts him off. “Dude. We're _not talking_ about it here.”

Vinny closes his mouth, but once Brad finishes, silence descends between them. It's a more natural creature than it would be with anyone else, but it's still not – this isn't what Brad wants. He wants to go back to easy conversation, friendly and innocuous like he's used to.

Before he can say something, change the subject, steer their conversation back onto topics _not that_ , the check comes back.

Brad scrawls his signature, leaves a hefty tip for the service, and hands it back with a smile. He turns back to Vinny, who's already shrugging into his suit jacket.

“Oh kay...So we're leaving now?” Brad stays seated, put off, as Vinny rises.

“Yeah, we're leaving. Get your coat.”

Brad frowns up at him, confused. After a moment, he does as he says.

\---

Even in the darkening evening with Vinny's suit blending in with the streets at night, a cab is easy to flag down.

“You said we weren't talking about it there,” Vinny explains, like he's being totally rational, ushering them into the backseat, “so we'll go somewhere else.”

He gives the driver an address - one Brad thinks he should recognize and still doesn't – and then sits back, all long, wine-loose limbs and smug expression.

Brad digs his fingernails into his palm and breathes out hard in something like annoyance. “You couldn't have waited? We'd barely finished _dinner_ -”

Vinny goes still next to him for a second, smirk slipping momentarily, then it's back. “Nope,” he says lightly. And leaves it at that.

It's not long before the cab pulls up to – of course, Brad thinks – Vinny's hotel. He gets out of the cab, nods at the driver and waits for Vinny to pay, but as soon as the cab peels away from the curb, he steps into Vinny's space and fists a handful of his suit lapel, gets in his face. “This isn't happening,” he snaps, keeping his voice low.

Vinny spreads his hands out from his side, palms wide, eyes still too amused for Brad's preference. “Okay. Okay, man, it's not happening.” He waits until Brad lets him go, makes a half-hearted attempt to straighten his tie, before tipping him his full grin. “...What's not happening?”

Brad grits his teeth, but doesn't rise to the bait, only shakes his head. Vinny laughs outright at him, turning to pull open the hotel doors. The thrown-back line of his throat is pale and strong.

Brad can't help following him in.

\---

There are about twenty different ways Brad can say what he needs to say, and then go home, and he goes over each one on the elevator up to Vinny's room.

Vinny drums his fingers on the silver handrail the runs along the elevator walls, slouched against the far wall. His legs are stretched out, crossed casually at the ankles. He hasn't lost the little quirk of a smile flirting at the edges of his mouth, and it's getting old.

Brad keeps his eyes on the wall of buttons in front of him and ignores the prickle of sweat suddenly crawling down his wrists.

\---

Tomorrow morning, he'll remember that walk from the elevators to Vinny's door in viscous snapshots, weirdly drawn-out.

There's the ping of the elevator doors – the smooth flash of them opening – the shush...shush of lush carpeting underfoot – the green wink of the card reader on Vinny's door.

They walk in, and with the _snick_ of the door shutting, everything speeds up again, quick and unrelenting. Brad clears his throat, opens his mouth to speak, and Vinny's mouth is on his, just like that.

It's hot and wet and _close_ and Vinny's hands come up to hold Brad's face, scritching through the start of Brad's beard, thumbs pressing under Brad's jaw.

Keeping him still, keeping him in place.

Brad's breath leaves him in a gasp before he's opening up purely on instinct. He lets Vinny back him up into the door, gets his hands on Vinny's hips and lets him in for a long moment.

And then: “Wait, fuck-” Brad plants the heel of his hand into Vinny's stomach and pushes. The rumbling groan Vinny makes when he's forced to back off sends a jolt of heat down Brad's spine, but he thunks his head back against the grain of the door and desperately tries to catch his breath.

“You can't just- Jesus, Vinny, which part of 'this isn't happening' did you miss?”

Vinny looks like he's barely listening, eyes dark and at half-mast. He leans in, noses up the line of Brad's neck and Brad can't, he can't push him away again.

His own eyes roll up in his head when Vinny sets gentle teeth into the tendon connecting his neck and shoulder. Exerts pressure, enough that Brad can feel it, will feel it tomorrow. Probably going to leave a mark he can run his fingers over for a day or two.

“Vinny...” It's more a whine, and Brad's a little pissed at how dumb he sounds. He gets a hand in Vinny's hair and _tugs_ him away. There's low-level anger buzzing right under his skin and he pulls harder than he needs to. He relishes Vinny's hiss for half a second before Vinny goes boneless, acquiescent in his hold.

That's just -

Brad loosens his grip a little and Vinny slumps forward, rests his forehead on Brad's shoulder. His mouth is open; Brad can feel his hot breaths puffing against Brad's skin through the dress-shirt fabric.

It's red right now, Brad knows, knows that just a little bit of kissing makes Vinny look like he's just given a twenty-minute blowjob.

He groans, half from arousal and half from frustration. “I swear to God, Vinny, you couldn't just – let it go?” he mutters, nudging at Vinny's sweaty head with his cheek.

Vinny shakes his head, and Brad feels the vibrations from the laugh that follows against his chest. “I hate you,” he sighs. He runs his fingers back through Vinny's hair, tugging as he goes, and the laugh peters into another groan before Vinny lifts his head.

“You don't hate me,” Vinny tells him, beyond amused at the idea, so self-assured. He brings a hand up, thumbs the curve of Brad's bottom lip.

Brad shakes his head mutely – no, he doesn't hate Vinny – and Vinny settles.

And then asks, “You're not going to be stupid and stop this again, are you?” Runs his hand down over Brad's neck, gets rid of his tie. “Leave me with _boules bleues_.” He gets Brad's shirt worked halfway off, presses his lips to the line of Brad's shoulder, muffling his last, grudgingly plaintive, “Leave.”

His voice sticks in his throat, but Brad shakes his head again. No, he's not leaving. He manages to get the rest of his shirt off, tosses it onto the floor, and pushes off strongly from the door. Moves them, stumbling, toward the bed and attacks the clasp on Vinny's belt.

\---

There are all sorts of memories, weird little flashbacks, when they do this.

Brad has a habit of comparing every bed they've used to the bunks at Notre Dame from those early, early days. Every time he falls back into this, there are years of history waiting to welcome him back, and it's always - _always_ \- disconcerting to realize how entrenched he is. How they both are.

He doesn't like that feeling, usually, that kind of reliance. He's never gotten used to completely ceding control, and Vinny sure as hell won't give it up himself without a fight.

Brad leaves a row of scratches lengthwise across the small of Vinny's back here, now, when Vinny shoves him back a step, unbalancing him enough to send Brad sprawling over the bedspread. He follows him down more gracefully, bracing his bigger frame on hands and knees over Brad with a grin. Brad frowns up at him. “Cheating.”

Vinny goes wide-eyed with faux-innocence. He looks ten years younger. “I can't help it if you're clumsy, Richie.”

Brad laughs even as he says, “Fuck you,” and digs his fingers into the meat of Vinny's bare shoulder, as hard as he can.

The way Vinny's face goes slack with pleasure reminds him of the first time. (It always does.)

It's a rush through his entire system, then, once Vinny bothers to do anything about his pants, once he slides Brad's off in turn and shimmies down the bed, sucks the head of Brad's cock in without warning.

It's wet and lush, all hurry and heat and it reminds Brad of nothing so much as the race to the goal line to catch an iced puck, that wild and headlong chase.

He tips his head back into the pillows and enjoys it for as long as he can before it's too much, too close – he flicks Vinny in the forehead to get his attention, receives a snarled lip of warning around his cock in response.

Brad laughs, sharp and strained, and tugs Vinny up by force, bites his lips, and puts Vinny's fingers where he needs them. Scrabbles for the bottle left so considerately on the nightstand and presses it into one of Vinny's wide palms.

It's always been like this. Brad thinks Vinny probably gets off on using his fingers on Brad more than Brad enjoys Vinny's fingers. Vinny is all moans, eyes screwing shut at every wet, obscene sound the slick makes, hips moving to accompany every twist of his wrist. It's one of the hottest things Brad's seen in his life, and he always forgets how _viscerally_ it hits him until he's here, in the moment with Vinny making low, broken sounds just from having his fingers inside Brad.

It's not long before Brad grabs Vinny's wrist, fingernails dug brutally into his skin. Vinny is all lithe, barely-controlled motion, pinning Brad's arms out of the way to wipe his lube-tacky hand in Brad's hair. Another leftover from those very earliest days, one of the more obnoxious, petty ones.

Brad twists out of his grasp a second too late, grumbles obligatorily at him and has to smack Vinny's flank to get Vinny moving on with it.

That gets a hot, hard shiver out of Vinny, and finally, a rough thrust in. Another, another. One time, in Océanic, they were just like this on a smaller bed, a draftier room, and Vinny had dropped his voice, hid his face in Brad's shoulder and growled for Brad to hit him again, just like that-

Brad lays another one on Vinny now, relishes the prickling burn in his palm and manages to grin up breathlessly at Vinny after Vinny groans way too loudly, stutters his thrusts before going still to regain control.

“Really want this to be over that fast,” Vinny asks him, voice hoarse, deeper than it ever gets outside the bedroom.

He pushes back in hard to make his point, and Brad quiets. He drops his hand. Fists up a handful of the bedcover compulsively instead as Vinny leans down, opens his mouth over the pulse in Brad's throat. He moves, and it's familiar, the sense built on years and years of catching these moments out of their lives.

Brad swallows and shakes his head, a sweaty back-and-forth across the pillow, too-late to answer the actual question.

He's not ready for this to be over.

  



End file.
